Nothing Left to Cry
by Dream Writer 4 Life
Summary: When you’re angry at the world, what do you do? CM 5-03 Challenge Entry. A Dream Writer Experience.


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Title: Nothing Left to Cry

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Author: Dream Writer 4 Life

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Rating: PG for language and subject matter

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Genre: Angst; slight bit of romance

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Spoilers/Timeline: Spoilers through S2.14 "Double Agent"; future fic

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'Shippers' Paradise: S/V

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Archived: FanFiction.Net, Cover Me, SD-1, and Hopes 'N Dreams 'R Us. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive! I'd love to visit.

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Summary: "There are times when you just need to find a place that's away from any noise, movement, anything _breathing_…You hug your knees and cry, cry for all that it's worth, cry until there's nothing left to cry." When you're angry at the world, what do you do? CM 5/03 Challenge entry.

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Disclaimer: I own nothing. If you recognize it, I don't own it. Period. End of story. Wait! No, it's not! Keep reading!

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Suggested Soundtrack: "Hello" by Evanescence, "Acoustic #3" by Goo Goo Dolls, "Misery" and "Dear Diary" by P!nk, "Hallelujah" by Rufus Wainwright, "Angel" by Sarah McLaughlan

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Author's Note: This was actually inspired by the end of "Dead Drop" Sunday night (and some slightly angsty experiences the previous day) and it _just flowed_. Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this. As always, leave reviews or email me! I love constructive criticism!

Nothing Left to Cry

There are a thousand ways to destroy a person, and this, you muse, is but one of them.

There are times when you just need to find a place that's away from any noise, movement, anything _breathing_. Then you just plunk down against a wall or wedged in a corner, pull your knees as close to your chest as possible, place your elbows on top, and hold your head in your hands. You hug your knees and cry, cry for all that it's worth, cry until there's nothing left to cry: your eyes are dry and scratchy, there is no sweat on your forehead, no blood running through your veins. And all you can think is that you need more tears, need them desperately, because you're not done crying yet. Oh no. You could keep crying for years.

But you cannot move.

Not even if your life depended on it could you possibly move from the vacuum that you have dropped yourself in. And you do not want to, either; you actually kind of like it here. It's a hell of a lot better than the reality that you've left. Just the mere thought of That Other Place starts the tear factory working again and the sobbing starts anew. (Where the salty liquid came from you can only guess; you suppose from your mouth and throat, because they are raw and ripped.)

You have no idea why you are crying, or even if it's any one thing in particular that set you off. After a while, you just kind of forget the why: you are too swept up in the act to think about the motive. At least until you stop. Then you have to start thinking again, reminding yourself that, yes, breathing is a mandatory bodily function. Then you start thinking about why you are breathing: because your blood needs to carry the oxygen to your cells. And what moves the blood? Your heart…Oh God: your heart. Your used, abused, bruised, broken, battered, shattered, withered, smothered, suffocated, bleeding, _dead_ heart. And that sets you off again. Because as soon as you think of your heart, everything comes back to you.

You remember why you started crying in the first place.

You remember why your throat is raw and your voice is hoarse.

You remember why you spent hours screaming at the pristine blue sky.

You remember why you are shaking like the last dead leaf on a maple tree on the last blustery day of autumn, holding onto the branch by sheer pluck and will power.

You remember why your trail here is marked by piles of vomit.

You remember why you hate the world and every single person, _every single living thing_ in it.

Frankly, you could pretty much sum it up three words: your life sucks.

Under normal circumstances, you would not want to rehash _everything_ that has gone wrong in your life up until this point, but this is not exactly a normal circumstance. And anyways, Self-Pity loves Misery, and Misery loves company, so she'll also bring along Memories too. But these are not Faceless Memories. Then it wouldn't be any fun.

If someone was being an insensitive bastard and asked what in your past could have possibly provoked you to seek out complete and utter solitude…You would have laughed in their face, laughed until you ran out of breath. Then you'd ask them if they would like the Cliff's Notes version or the actual novel, 'cause if they want the latter, they will have to tune in for the better part of two years (plus, new crap is being uncovered all of the time). Most likely they'd opt for the Cliff's Notes. Then you'd tell them to sit back, open their ears, and chain themselves to the chair, 'cause it's going to be a bumpy ride. Of course, you'd start at the beginning.

The first thing happened before you were even born; in fact, it is the reason you were born in the first place. Your mother, Irina Derevko, met your father, Jack Bristow, "fell in love," and got married. Somewhere in there Jack began his life as a double agent, working for both Sloane at SD-6 and the CIA. 

Then, as an accident byproduct of their "love", you happened to come along.

Little, innocent, baby you.

Well, you didn't stay innocent for long.

While still a toddler, your father tested his experiment called Project Christmas on you, during which your mind and body were trained, molded, and _corrupted_ into that of a spy's. But that comes out later in life; he also made sure that you had repressed the entire ordeal.

Then, at the young, tender age of six, your mother "died" in a "car accident". Technically, you have realized, Laura Bristow ceased to exist and Irina Derevko resurfaced. This left you emotionally scarred, facing the world without a motherly influence and with only an increasingly distant father who "sold airplane parts" twenty-four/seven. But again, this comes in to play later in life. It is so recent, in fact, that you can still feel the sting of the tears on your cheeks. Or maybe that's just because you've started crying again…

In your freshman year of college, you were recruited by SD-6, a black ops division of the CIA. Or at least that is what your superior said at the time. You performed missions—stole artifacts and information — for six years before realizing your mistake. Along the way, you met the first two men you've ever loved.

The first one probably wasn't even love: it was more of an infatuation, a physical attraction, _lust_. Agent Noah Hicks, special agent at SD-6, was possibly the first on your list of must-haves for a good while, even though he was probably one of the most infuriating men you have ever met. But the heart doesn't care; it is independent of the mind. That dumb ass organ never knows what the hell it's doing until afterwards, when it looks back and goes, 'What the hell was that?' Noah Hicks was definitely one of those times. And to add to that boatload of shit, you had to be the one to kill him. The last face he saw, the last words he heard were yours. The fact that he was a wanted assassin and had killed dozens of people all while keeping his secret identity from you…That doesn't even register.

Daniel Hecht, doctor-in-training, also lost his life because of his ties to you. You two were _in love, engaged, about to be married._ Then you told him the truth. Whoever said the truth shall set you free wasn't kidding; it helped you become single again (and a few too many drinks at a bar did the rest). At least you didn't kill him. But you do not regret your decision, not for a moment. You know in your heart of hearts that you could not have possibly lived the way Marcus Dixon and Irina Derevko have, lying to their spouses about their job, about their every move. You needed some stability in your life — still do, as a matter of fact — and truth is all about stability and trust. It was your first situation regarding SD-6 that you have not looked back upon and regretted.

The second came about right around the time the first one left.

Yes, the one thing that has remained almost constant in your life.

The one ray of light in your blacker-than-night world.

Agent Michael C. Vaughn.

When the world was falling down around you, the lines blurring, white suddenly becoming grey, and nothing was true anymore (not even gravity), only he weathered the storm. He rose from the ashes, dusted himself off, helped you to your feet and asked, 'Want to go for ice cream?' His stability, reliability, and his ally-worthiness astound you to this day. He's got your back, he's in your corner, he's the keystone, he's every cliché in the book and then some because to you, he's the world…

The world…but you're angry at the world…Does that mean you're angry with him?

No. You could never be angry with him.

But if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem…

Then maybe angry by association is more like it.

Could he have possibly known? Did he know who the second double was and did not tell you? Kept the information to himself to protect you, to shelter you from the truth? _To coddle you?!_ He knows that you hate to be coddled, but has that ever stopped him? No.

So you do hate the entire world.

No exceptions.

Because they all hate you.

Especially Will.

He blames you for Francie's death, for his involvement with the CIA, the government, with the very scum of humanity. He even places you in that latter category. You now have no name at all; you are merely you, she, her, it. Sometimes you want to scream: 'Why don't you just leave? You have no ties now! Go into witness protection, move to Alaska, drown in the Bay, just do something and do it now!' Because you know he's right: it is your fault. By wanting to feel needed — to belong to something — back in freshman year…You destroyed the lives that you thought you were saving. It is death by association; as soon as a person gets to know you, they are immediately placed on someone's Death List and exterminated (or replaced) as soon as they see fit. Will deserves to seek out someone to blame, and he rightly chose you.

So whom do you get to blame?

There are two choices here. The first one that everyone seems to turn to at one time or another is an outside party. It is always someone else's fault never your own. This can be very effective when there is only one other 'someone else'. See, this choice does not work for you. This choice does not work for you because there are simply too many people to blame: your mother, your father, Sloane, God (ha, there is no God), Noah, Danny, Vaughn, Will, Francie, Dixon, Kendall, Devlin, Anna Espinosa, Khasinau, the CIA janitor, anyone you've ever met! Because in some way, shape, or form they have forever changed the course of your life. They have turned it into a one-way street down the middle of the desert. And the worst part is that you can see the other road running parallel to yours in the opposite direction, that it is so close you swear if you reach…just…a little…bit…farther…you could somehow hop on. In other words, you can imagine how it could have been had the whole world _not_ decided to turn on you, to make it We Hate You Day and not tell you. To see, _to know_ what could have been…destroys you.

So what is the other choice? You thought it was obvious. The only other person to blame is yourself. _You_ made the decisions, _you_ carried out the actions, _you_ single-handedly tore down each and every life you have touched. In the end, there is nothing left but you. Well, you and your blame.

You suppose that this was what has set you off, sent your emotions and your tear ducts spiraling out of control.

Yes, there are a thousand ways to destroy a person, and this is one of them, but this is definitely the most potent.

And now you decide that you simply do not want to think about any of this anymore. You want to escape from reality — from your life — and the only way you know how is to cry. To cry, to cry for all that it's worth, to cry until there's nothing left to cry. To wrap yourself in the despair, the self-pity, misery, memories, hopelessness like a thick black blanket. So the only think you can do is wedge yourself into that corner a little bit farther, hug your knees ever tighter, hang your head in your hands, and cry. Because that is what your life has been reduced to.


End file.
